'Pour me another double, Tom.'

The ancient landlord of The Leaky Cauldron averted his eyes and complied, sliding the glass down to the semi-lucid man alone at a little table down the end of the bar. He knew he was supposed to tell his customers when to stop, but then again, here was a man who really needed a drink. Had needed a drink each night, every night, for quite some time now, actually. Tom was uncomfortable, maybe he would say something soon, but he was never too good at giving advice or listening to his customers pouring their hearts out, despite having been a barman for 62 years. He was a simple man.

George Weasley was drunk. Very drunk. But not drunk enough. He threw the firewhiskey down his throat and slammed the shot glass down on the little rickety table; he had learned to ignore the burning sensation. He checked his watch: one a.m. Not late enough to sleep, really sleep, without waking in the night.

He had moved out of The Burrow and back into the little flat they had shared above their shop. He was tired of the looks he got whenever he walked into a room at the Burrow, the sudden hush of voices that showed that they had just ceased talking about him, the fact that his mother only seemed to cook meals she knew were his favourites, forgetting that that was unlikely to cheer him up as they were Fred's favourites too. They owled him a lot, they were worried, especially his mother, but they understood he wanted to be alone.

George's head was resting sideways on the table, resting on his arms. He could see the bottles lined up ever so neatly at the bar, their shelves buffed to a shine, polished: Tom took good care of his bar. He surveyed the bottles, wondering which one would bring him blissful oblivion. Lotka's Vodka? Maybe mixed with a little sinful gin. Or Rasta's Finest Carribbean Rum… His eyes slid in and out of focus. He scanned the shelves full of hard liquor, and then one bottle caught his eye. His stomach contracted painfully. As far as bottles of spirits go, it was nondescript, glass with a brown and black label. Travers' Tequila. A memory gripped him, he closed his eyes to make it go away, but it only made it all the more clear.

It was a Friday night in the Gryffindor Common Room, and George, for once in his pre-war life, was alone. Everyone had gone to bed, and he was waiting for Fred; he had been told that he should wait, he would have a surprise, and that they would be celebrating their birthday in style. April the first, no-one ever missed the joke of their birthday. April 1st, 1979, when two April Fools were born, 6 minutes apart, George the younger, Fred the older– and the age difference was never forgotten by either, as twins never do forget that sort of thing. In 1994, 15 years later, well, nearly anyway, it was 10 minutes to midnight. George felt anxious about this– he had never turned a year older without his brother by his side.

When they were little, they used to stay up until midnight and count down the seconds, then they would give each other their gifts, always homemade, always joke-presents, that way, they would always be the first gift-giver of the day to each other. Once, when they turned 8, Fred gave him a jack-in-the-box that exploded and then reformed into its perfect, pristine prior state– but unfortunately George liked this so much that he did it 3 more times until his mother smashed down their bedroom door in her nightie and walloped him around the ears with it for waking her up- along with the rest of the household.

The portrait hole opened and in walked Fred, with his characteristic mischievous grin that George knew so well, that he wore himself more often than not. He wore a travelling cloak over his robes, and the bottom of it was cloaked with dust and dirt. George has suspected that he might have gone to Hogsmeade, and here was his suspicions confirmed- the dirt from the secret passageway gave the game away. Fred threw himself onto the couch, he winked at George and revealed from behind his cloak a bottle, glass, with a brown and black label, full of sloshing, light amber coloured liquid. George's eyes widened and he mirrored his brother's smile. George took it from him and read:

'Travers' Tequila? Where did you get this? Surely Rosmerta didn't let you have this?'

'No no, my simple twin, this was a more direct acquisition- sweets aren't the only thing the Honeydukes keep in that cellar,' He grinned. 'The old bloke must keep his secret stash there too, away from his wife, but not away from us… I left money, but all the same, quite kind of him, we must write a thank-you note, a Christmas card, perhaps. We're men now George, and men drink tequila.'

He withdrew two small glasses from his cloak, set them on the low table in front, and filled them to the brim. He handed one to George, and simultaneously they checked their watches. One minute to midnight.

'Well, Fred, should we do a sum-up of the year in thirty seconds or something of the like?'

'I was thinking the same George- but maybe we should do instead a sum-up of the year to come.'

There was no need for second-guessing or explanations; they always understood each other perfectly.

'Well,' said George. 'I plan to keep a tidy trunk, get my homework done on time, become a prefect and write essays on the importance of law and order in our society to be published in the Wizard's Law Review. Co-authoring with Percy, of course.'

Fred nodded solemnly. 'A fine course of life for a fine young man. I however, plan to set off a dungbomb in McGonagall's office, kidnap Mrs Norris, and snog at least 10 girls.'

'You could never snog 10, ugly.'

'Wanna bet, ginger git?'

'Most girls in a year, winner is the other's slave for a week?'

'You're on.'

'This year is already shaping up nicely.'

They checked their watch- 5 seconds to go.

'Here's to becoming men,' said Fred.

'Men,' agreed George.

And on the stroke of midnight, they downed their first ever taste of hard liquor. The tequila licked like flames at their throats, and they gasped, their eyes watering, and they grinned at each other.

'It tastes like the essence of Uncle Bilius,' coughed George

'Bless his soul,' said Fred. 'Only one thing to wash it down with.'

And he poured two more. They threw them back… And George remembered his present. He extracted it, wrapped in exuberant orange wrapping paper, from beneath the couch and passed it to Fred.

'Many happy returns, ya bugger.'

Fred beamed and passed George his own, wrapped in the same paper.

George ripped open his… inside was a small, white box. He removed the lid carefully, wary of any explosive materials; inside was a small, single, sweet. He began to laugh, and looked at Fred.

'You didn't.'

'I did. The first ever finished Ton-Tongue Toffee. It'll take a long time to develop more though, but now at least we have a prototype. Basic ingredients all your idea of course, but I've found the missing ingredient,' said Fred.

'What was it?'

'That's for me to know, and you to find out.'

Fred turned to his own, rather larger, present. It was long and rectangular, and he ripped it open with the same vigour as George. Once unwrapped, he gazed at it for a few seconds, and turned to George with an ear-splitting grin.

'You didn't.'

'I did.'

It was a large sign, of the sort of size that you would always find hanging over the door of a shop. It was gleaming, brand new, a bright purple with wonderfully clashing bright orange letters: 'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.'

'It's the beginning you know,' said George knowledgeably. 'We have our products'-he indicated the toffee-'and we have our marketing.' He indicated the sign.

'It's all falling into place,' Fred sighed dramatically, leaning forward and pouring a third measure into the glasses. George could already feel a pleasant fuzziness of the brain, borne no doubt of the previous servings.

'Now all we need is somewhere to put this sign, and… and money to invent more,' George said. Fred glanced at his brother; it was his fear also that they would not be able to fulfil their dream for lack of money.

'Don't worry about that now,' Fred said quietly. 'It's our birthday, we're fifteen, lets celebrate properly!' He passed the shot to George.

'Cheers.'

'Chin-chin.'

They downed their third, and their fourth, and their fifth, and soon they lost track of how much they had had, not least because they were now drinking straight from the bottle. They both knew one thing though:

'I've had more than yoooou.'

'No, I've defffinitelee had mor,' George articulated his certainty by slapping his hand on the table in front of him, but he overbalanced and fell off the couch.

'You look like an idiot,' Fred chortled, wearing a hat fashioned from his potions essay on his head.

He reached for the nearly empty bottle and overbalanced as well, pitching forwards and then slumping over, his head on the table. George felt like doing the same. He slumped his head down on the table too, but did it a little harder than he had intended, and wound up with a very sore head. Fred laughed. 'Careful now, or you'll get unconscious or die or something.'

'I won' die. I can't die.'

'Why is that, stupid?'

'Coz you… gots to have to die… same time with me.'

It was a clear thought in his head at least.

'You don't make sense, stupid.'

'Its simple,' said George, slapping his hand on the table again. 'We'll die same time, same place. I know it.'

'Howdja know?' Fred mumbled, eyelids drooping.

'Just coz. We're born same time, same place, weren't we? 15 years ago today!' They clinked their empty glasses together. 'So, we'll die same time, same place. I'll go a couple minutes after you though, coz I'm younger.'

Fred seemed to be asleep.

'Fred?' said George.

Fred grunted. He opened his eyes. "I like the sound of that." He burped. "That way we don't have to ever be apart."

The corner of George's mouth twitched up into a sombre smile.

'Never.'

'What a girl.'

''S true though. You'll see. Never apart.'

Fred smiled, his eyes closed again. George closed his eyes too.

'Never,' Fred whispered. And like that, side by side, they fell asleep, just like when they were very young, and slept in the same bed, on the same pillow. Never apart.

Until now. Tears leaked down George's face as he sat alone, his head on the table, just like it was back then, only there was no mirror image of his face resting next to his. He couldn't bear sitting still, now that he had thought of Fred against his will, whenever he did, it was like a dam burst inside him that even 20 more shots couldn't stop. He slammed a galleon down onto the bar and staggered out back.

It was pouring, but the only water George could feel running down his face was his own tears. He fumbled for his wand and tapped the brick, then sloshed his way down Diagon Alley, not troubling to avoid puddles; his shoes were soon filled with water. He reached the shop. There was a much bigger sign above the shop window, the main sign, you might say, bright and flashing, but to Fred and George the main sign was always the first one. He looked up at it hanging above the door, purple and orange, and stood there in the rain for a long time, his body racked with sobs. He eventually went up, to the second storey, to their small bedroom that they had shared, and curled up on his bed in his wet clothes and cried.

A/N: To be continued, it gets happier, I promise! Please review! Any mistakes feel free to point 'em out and they will be resolved.